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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982619">There are no words to describe you in the English language (but I’ve got a list of those that almost can)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain'>FlashMountain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove is bad with emotions, Dyslexic Steve Harrington, First Time, Getting Together, Harringrove, M/M, Sex, Smart Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington is bad at being in denial, Tutoring, another tutor au, billy has a big fat crush on steve, enthusiastic boys, steve is a brat, yep</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982619</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“A tutor?”, and he’s drawn back to reality, a rubber band snapping back, stinging his skin. And he remembers how uncomfortable the chairs in the principal's office really are, how the plastic sticks to him through, like, three layers of clothing. Takes in the ugly yellow of the walls again, has to make eye contact with principle <em>something</em>, a name he should probably know. </p><p>“You see, there are a lot of students who volunteer with tutoring, I’m sure a lot of them would love to… take on you, but Mrs. Click recommended, really, her best student. He’s been a pleasant surprise for all of us, but especially when it comes to English, she said. A real star-”</p><p>And Steve’s heard those words before, in all sorts of combinations, knows what’s coming before the shiver running down his spine does, before the name leaves thin lips hiding behind a thinner mustache. </p><p>“-William Hargrove”</p><p>And yeah, Billy fucking Hargrove? You fucking <em>suck</em>.<br/><br/>Or, two times Billy read out loud to Steve and he told him to shut up, and one time Steve asked him too. And one time they read for each other.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>178</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Don’t act like you’re better than me (I already think it enough)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyspilot/gifts">greyspilot</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a fic I’ve been wanting to write for a while, and it got way outta hand, so I split it into four organized-ish parts.</p><p>I hope you all enjoy yet another tutor AU for these dumb boys.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everyone knew that Billy Hargrove was smart. It was obvious, from the first day he stepped foot in a town smaller than the space he took up. It wasn’t just that kind of smarts that made him king in a day, the kinda smarts that made all the <em>make my life mean something</em>’s follow him around from the first time they saw him and a car too loud and <em>alive</em> for Hawkins, Indiana, and it only took half an English class for everyone to get that.</p><p>He’d drawl out the answers before anyone could find the right page in the right book, talk about analyzing and portraying and symbolizing like he was listing the names of the girls who’d already given him their phone number and address.</p><p>He <em>knew</em> about all that, understood it, liked it even. And he should’ve been a nerd, an outcast, but he became King goddamn Billy anyway, ‘cause he’s all <em>golden</em>, all California and sun and everything Hawkins isn’t. Knows shit no one would <em>dream</em> of in all American, <em>home sweet home,</em> Hawkins. And it gave him power, made them all worship him even more. Kiss the ground his too worn biker boots walked all over. </p><p>And Steve had to hear all about it, about Billy being a damn genius, about Billy having read all the books they’d got lined up for senior year, about <em>Billy, Billy, Billy</em>. Couldn’t even escape it from <em>Nancy</em>, before all the <em>bullshit</em>, had to hear about the new guy in AP lit just bulldoze over her and her flashcards. Heard about it <em>after</em>, too, when they were <em>nothing</em> but still friends ‘cause it’s hard not to be when there’s NDA’s and death and monsters keeping everyone real close.</p><p>Everyone knows it. Knows Billy’s a <em>genius</em> or something, just hit the jackpot in every area, but Steve never really thought it’d mean something to him. He’s not in <em>AP lit,</em> he doesn’t care about better GPA’s and shit he forgets as soon as his dad yells ‘em at him. So it wasn’t really a thing on his <em>why Billy Hargrove sucks </em>list. He’s never <em>seen</em> it, not like he’s seen the other qualities of Billy <em>fucking</em> Hargrove.</p><p>Not like he’s played with him at practice, dodging fire and bullet fast speed, all anger and precision and skill. Steve’s good, but Billy’s better, been playing since he was a kid, running around in big time California, playing ball when Steve was clutching his kiddie baseball bat, kicking up grass with shoes too expensive and a little too small for his always growing feet, ‘cause how were <em>they</em> supposed to know he’d grow even more during the time it took to travel from Vienna to Milano to New York to home that’s not really <em>home</em>?</p><p>Not like he felt those fists, all that anger concentrated on him, beating at him over and over. Like he’d felt the blood <em>drip, drip, dripping</em>, too much blood from a cut, a punch and fingers dressed in too heavy rings. Like he heard him laughing, throwing punches with his mouth open wide, eyes wider in some sorta manic delusion. He’d felt that, still feels it, or doesn’t, all numb on the left side of his cheek, something he didn’t really check out ‘cause they didn’t have <em>time</em>, ‘cause he was saving the damn world together with a bunch a’ kids he’d never met before.</p><p>He got a taste of it, the cunning smartness of Billy Hargrove, two months after, an apology forced outta lips all chapped from the Indiana cold and a tongue that won’t stop tracing them. Heard him twist and turn and be all remorseful, talk about stepping over a line he’d already crossed before, so many times. Said <em>sorry, actually</em>. Said <em>family comes first</em> like Steve doesn’t know he calls Max <em>Maxine</em> and <em>step</em>-sister and <em>bitch</em>. And all he said back was <em>okay</em>, ‘cause he’s not good with words, ‘cause he doesn’t really care about Billy Hargrove, just because he thinks about him, makes his little lists about <em>why you suck</em>, just ‘cause he pretends like he doesn’t know whose blue eyes force their way into his goddamn dreams.</p><p>So yeah, that one more of many of <em>he’s better than you,</em> the whole wiz kid shit, he never really counted it in. Never thought it mattered, until-</p><p>“A tutor?”, and he’s drawn back to reality, a rubber band snapping back, stinging his skin. And he remembers how uncomfortable the chairs in the principal's office really are, how the plastic sticks to him through, like, three layers of clothing. Takes in the ugly yellow of the walls again, has to make eye contact with principle <em>something</em>, a name he should probably know. And he’s sighing like he’s tired, cleaning his glasses with a tie all purple and orange. The yellow, purple, orange pricks at his eyes. Makes him wanna barf.</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Harrington. I know you’ve always had… <em>difficulties</em>, with english.”, and he’s saying <em>difficulties</em> like he didn’t sit here years ago, talking to the Harringtons about <em>dyslexia</em> and learning disabilities. Like his dad didn’t threaten to pull in his <em>oh</em> so generous funding of the Hawkins <em>folk don’t know better state of the art</em> swimming pool. Like he didn’t do it anyway when he decided basketball suited Steve better. Suited his <em>legacy</em>, better. “But it’s your last semester here, and none of us want you do give up right before the finish line, son”, and his words blend together with the <em>tick, tick, ticking</em> of the clock to the right of him, with the buzzing of <em>something</em> outside, of the rustling of the blinds tangling in the wind.</p><p>“So… someone’s gonna, like…”, and he’s cutting off, wants to wrap it all up, is kinda sick of hearing <em>what’s his name</em> call him <em>son</em>, talk about misplaced motivation. Wants to know who he’s gonna be stuck with, doesn’t know if it’d be good or bad if it’d be <em>Nancy</em>. ‘Cause they’re friends, even after, they <em>are</em>, but he’s seen enough pursed lips and <em>you’re an idiot</em> smiles from her to last a lifetime. Doesn’t wanna see them now, when those lips wont let ‘emselves be kissed, after. Doesn’t know who he wants it to be, doesn’t <em>care</em>. Tries to find a comfortable position in the barf green chair that only hurts his knees <em>or</em> back.</p><p>“You see, there are a lot of students who volunteer with tutoring, I’m sure a lot of them would love to… take you on, but Mrs. Click recommended, really, her best student. He’s been a pleasant surprise for all of us, but especially when it comes to English, she said. A real star-”</p><p>And Steve’s heard those words before, in all sorts of combinations, knows what’s coming before the shiver running down his spine does, before the name leaves thin lips hiding behind a thinner mustache.</p><p>“-William Hargrove”</p><p>And yeah, Billy <em>fucking</em> Hargrove? You fucking suck.</p><p>-</p><p><em>After school hours, </em>he tells him, smiling like the whole school’s doing him a favor, inviting Billy Hargrove into his house to help him with <em>bullshit</em> he doesn’t care about, won’t ever think about after he graduates with his barely there grades. After school <em>fucking</em> hours, and <em>you should be grateful Mr. Hargrove agreed. </em></p><p>It’s all bullshit, and he just wants to get it over with, knows Hargrove will too. Wanna get it over with. He doesn’t <em>care</em> about what Hargrove wants, doesn’t care when he’s straightening the pillows on the couch, when he’s wiping crumbs of nothing from the kitchen table. When he makes his bed, like Billy Hargrove would <em>ever</em> come near his bedroom. It’s whatever. He’s going on autopilot, it’s all standard procedure.</p><p>He’s in the kitchen, fingers curled around the bottle of Jack he hides under the sink like someone’ll come looking. Ignores how <em>that</em> isn’t standard procedure, chokes down two more gulps. It’s past five, and all he got was after school hours, and he’s been home all <em>after school, </em>so he’s kinda riding on the fact that Hargrove might just not show up. ‘Cause why would he? It’s not like he cares, ‘cause he never really talked to him after his <em>I’m sorry, actually </em>and Steve’s <em>okay</em>. He probably won’t show, will take the credit and hope Steve goes along with it. Yeah, that’s probably it, which means Steve got all worked up for no reason, lied to himself about <em>not</em> being worked up, all for nothing. A waste of his goddamn time.</p><p>The doorbell rings.</p><p>It’s all shrill, makes him flinch like he hasn’t been waiting for it since he left the principal's office, and he drops the bottle on the granite counter, feels his heart drop a little with it.</p><p>His hands are sweating, and he’s regretting putting on his softest sweater, ‘cause he’s kinda sweating all over. He opens the door too fast, too eager. And he’s eye to eye with Hargrove, all ‘cause of those boots he’s always wearing, blue meeting brown.</p><p>He looks <em>normal</em>, not dressed up and not dressed down, tee covering his chest, jeans hugging <em>everything</em>. And it’s not like he expected he’d show up all <em>king</em>, dressed in shirts he doesn’t know how to button, <em>leather pants </em>painted on. Steve didn’t even expect him to show up, but he’s <em>there</em>, bookbag in hand, looking all <em>normal</em> on Steve’s doorstep.</p><p>“Hey”, and there’s a too long pause between his <em>hey</em> and Billy’s… <em>nothing</em>. Billy’s eyes raking over him, lips twitching. “You, uh, come in”, and it feels <em>wrong</em>, inviting Billy Hargrove into his house, but he kinda has to, has to sit down and explain to <em>isn’t he amazing </em>Hargrove why he’s flunking English and every other class.</p><p>He’s speed walking through the hallway, hopes Hargrove follows him, hopes he’ll take a hint and not look too closely at shit Steve’s stopped maintaining for people to look at. He doesn’t. He can hear rings against the walls, like Billy’s tracing his hands over everything. It should bother him more. And his stupid, <em>stupid</em> brain morphs the thought, jumbles up all the words, twists it into <em>Billy tracing his hands over him.</em> The shiver racing down his back doesn’t mean anything.</p><p>When they reach the living room, Steve feels stupid. ‘Cause he cleaned it, made it all nice, but it doesn’t look nice, it looks- unlived in. Unnatural straight corners, pristine carpet. Soulless. And he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a fuck about Billy Hargrove judging his couch or fireplace or fucking table. It’s not like it’s really his, anyways.</p><p>Hargrove dumps his bag on the floor and himself on the couch before Steve could passive aggressively tell him to make himself at home, boots planted heavy, arms spread out wide.</p><p>“So…”, and he trails off all uselessly again, wants Billy to <em>do</em> something. Doesn’t know what. Doesn’t want smalltalk or no talk. Doesn’t wanna be tutored by some jackass who thinks he’s <em>that</em> much better ‘cause he’s lived somewhere <em>alive</em>, for a change. Doesn’t want Hargrove to leave, either.</p><p>“So, I’m here to help ya, right? Make you pass baby English?”, and he’s been there for like <em>five</em> seconds, and he’s already starting with his shit, and Steve’s already got a headache. Something has to show on his face, ‘cause Billy throws his hands up in a <em>calm down</em> way, laughs like it’s a joke. A ha-ha between friends. Winks at him, too. He can feel his pulse rushing in his temple.</p><p>“Uhm, I guess. I didn’t really, like, think you’d show”, and he doesn't know why he’s telling him, ‘cause he’s there already, sprawled out on his couch, Steve in the armchair next to it, even though there’s a lot of space left on that couch. If he sprawled out on it too their knees‘d have to touch, though.</p><p>“Why not?”, and Hargrove’s staring him down like he’s <em>daring</em> him to say something, eyes <em>electric</em>. So damn blue.</p><p>“Just, y’know, figured there’s a party to go to.”, and it’s like, half past five on a Wednesday, but he can’t really take it back, so he kinda has to stare Billy down right back with his dumbass reply. And it’s stupid enough for Billy to huff a little laugh, lips curling into something that might be a smile.</p><p>“Well, I’m here. ‘Sides, I’ve got hidden dimensions, pretty boy”, and he licks his lips like that, says <em>dimensions</em> like he means something else, looks at him like he <em>means</em> something else. Steve’s never been good at reading between the lines.</p><p>They stare for two, three seconds. <em>More</em>. Steve’s counting every one, times it with the <em>tick, tick, tick</em> of the clock behind him. And it’s like a switch, Billy pulling back, reaching down to get his stuff, telling him to <em>get your shit</em>. And he’s already <em>got</em> his shit, put it in neat piles on the coffee table, and it looks stupid. Like he even <em>looks</em> at the papers and books and bullshit, usually.</p><p>But it’s there, and Billy’s throwing stuff up on the table too, books all tortured and well used, notes where he’s written shit down, margins filled with a handwriting that gradually goes from neat to chicken scratch.</p><p>“You’ve got a couple a’ essays and shit, right? And <em>Heights</em>, to read?”, and Billy has some sorta paper in his hand, shows it to him, and it’s assignments and deadlines Steve probably should know about. “What do you struggle with?”, and there’s so many questions, rapid fire, and his attention latches onto the way Billy’s voice is rough, <em>feels</em> warm, like <em>that</em> makes any sense.</p><p><em>What do you struggle with? </em>Like the answer isn’t <em>everything</em>, like he’s not some sorta <em>retard</em> that can’t make out the meaning of long words in fine print.</p><p>“I mean… I don’t really- I guess I suck at writing, like, I don’t know how to make it <em>good</em>”, and he can’t tell if Billy buys it, if he sees right through him, sees the way his hands twist in his lap like they do when he’s not saying shit. ‘Cause <em>everything’s</em> a fucking struggle, writing and reading and staying in focus. ‘Cause it’s hard reading the words when the letters mix themselves into something he doesn’t recognize, when the sounds around him are too <em>loud</em>, or if the room’s too quiet. It’s hard to stay still, make his mind focus on some <em>bullshit</em> essay like it’s gonna matter, like he hasn’t seen <em>monsters</em>, burnt them alive.</p><p>“Okay”, and Billy’s dragging it all out, <em>okayyyy</em>, like he doesn’t actually care. And it’s weird, how mixed up he is about it. How he wants to be pissed at the <em>asshole</em> making fun of him while he’s relaxing in his fucking couch. How it’s refreshing, not getting those pitying smiles, those <em>you’re an idiot</em> smiles. “Read somethin’ for me, then. Something you’ve written”.</p><p>And reading out loud isn’t something he <em>does</em>, ‘cause his voice gets all high and pitchy and dumb. ‘Cause he stutters his way through misspelled words and his own shitty handwriting, ‘cause he’s <em>stupid</em>. ‘Cause he never got <em>help</em>, ‘cause there was nothing to help <em>with</em>. Not when it would make him look <em>wrong</em>, more than just slow on the uptake. But Hargrove’s looking at him all expectantly, and he’s not about to back down, let him win something in <em>Steve’s</em> fucking living room.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah okay”, and he’s ruffling through papers, trying to find an okay one, one he got more than a D on, got more than that twist of thin lips in his car. There’s not many to choose from.</p><p>“America is a country of freedom, built on democracy and the choice of the people. It’s a rep-“, and he’s barely stumbling through the first sentence before Hargrove’s cutting him off with a,</p><p>“Hey, <em>hey</em>, you’re talking like someone died, where’s the fuckin’ <em>feeling</em>? You’re stumbling through half of the words, is this the first time you read it, or what?”, and he looks like he cares, frowns all big and worried. It makes his gut twist, makes him wanna do better. And he <em>hates</em> it, ‘cause he’s got nothing to prove to Billy Hargrove. Hates how those eyes make him squirm and wanna do better, ‘cause it’s all <em>bullshit,</em> and he doesn’t care, and Hargrove doesn’t care. It’s <em>whatever</em>.</p><p>“Fuck off”, and he’s crumpling the stupid essay up, huffs a little. Avoids eyes that are all blue and too smart, too calculating, that stare into his damn soul.</p><p>“Hey, no, gimme that”, and Hargrove’s reaching for it like he’s <em>actually</em> gonna get it, palm up like Steve’s gonna hand him <em>shit</em>.</p><p>“Like hell I- <em>hey</em>”, and Billy’s snatching outta his fist, shoots up from the couch all quick, faster than Steve could lean back. And he’s <em>close</em>, just for a second, face six inches away from his own. Just a <em>second</em>, a second of something weightless and new, when Billy sways all close. He holds his breath, locks eyes with those <em>blue</em> ones. And it’s just a second, but it feels like <em>forever</em>, feels like he’s gonna run out of the air he’s holding in his lungs. Feels trapped in some sorta way that doesn’t make him wanna run.</p><p>They fall over the edge, though, after that second. Billy move’s right back, settles down into <em>Steve’s</em> couch with <em>Steve’s</em> essay tucked away safely. He’s reading through it, eyes flitting over the paper, brow furrowed. And it makes his skin prickle, the way Billy Hargrove’s frowning at the essay he’s halfway proud of. And he hates that he even cares what <em>better than you </em>Hargrove thinks about his <em>bullshit</em> words scribbled onto coffeestained paper.</p><p>“Shit, Harrington”, and it nuzzles right under his ribs, forces its way into him, the way Billy Hargrove looks at him all <em>worried</em>, like Steve might just be the dumbest fucker he’s ever met. “Are you dyslexic or somethin’?”, and it’s not really Billy Hargrove’s voice, saying that word over and over in his head. It’s not really <em>him</em>, even though he’s the one who said it, brought it up, sitting slumped in Steve’s couch like his dad would sit slumped in that <em>ugly</em> office chair.</p><p>“Fuck you, Hargrove”, and he hates how it affects him, how he hears the <em>retard</em> and <em>idiot</em> already, even though Billy’s not talking.</p><p>“I’m not- you should’ve told me, it’s kinda my <em>job</em> to help you with this shit”, and it’s so easy to forget that Billy does this shit, that he’s Hawkins High’s damn <em>miracle</em>, that he’s sprawled out on his couch for credit, for something that’ll make college people who sent their <em>we’re sorry to inform you</em> to Steve but are drooling for Billy Hargrove.</p><p>“Yeah, right”, and Hargrove just keeps looking at him, like he- like he fuckin’ <em>cares</em>, and it’s too much, too much <em>bullshit</em> for him to handle <em>this</em> close to fuckin’ graduation.</p><p>“I’m not messin’ ‘round, come on, I’ll read it to ya so you’ll see how it’s supposed to go”, and it makes him fucking <em>burn</em>, the way it’s just like Nancy and her <em>listen how it’s </em>supposed<em> to be</em>, her pitying smiles and <em>as long as </em>you<em> understand</em>. And he’s reading Steve’s jumbled up, <em>almost</em> average essay, makes it sound smart and good and thought out with his <em>stupid</em> voice and stupid <em>everything</em>. And it stings, the white hot of <em>you’re the problem. </em></p><p>“Shut up”, and Billy <em>doesn’t</em>, because why would he, keeps reading, huffs out some kinda laugh every time he stumbles over a misspelled word or a sentence that’s just <em>wrong</em> ‘cause Steve can’t even get the easy shit right. “Shut <em>up</em>, jesus, why’re you being an ass?”, and it’s really the worst question to ever ask Billy <em>fucking</em> Hargrove, ‘cause he’s <em>always</em> an ass. Always throwing shit in your face to see what happens. Waiting for something to explode like the aftermath is fun for anyone involved. Like Steve doesn’t have a fucking scar from last time.</p><p>“I’m not, I’m here to fuckin’, make you good at this shit, I’m just showing you how easy it-“</p><p>“It’s not fucking <em>easy</em>, like, for every one who’s not you. We can’t all be some kinda geniuses or like, unbutton our shirts to bump up our GPA, that’s not how shit works. It’s fucking <em>hard</em> for me and you don’t even <em>care</em>, I don’t even know why you’re here, dude, shit.”, and he’s throwing up all kinds of bullshit, chest <em>heaving</em>, and it’s quiet. Hargrove actually shut up, and he gets his second of satisfaction before he meets those eyes, sees something in them he’s never really seen before. He looks blank, face slack for a second before that jaw goes <em>tight</em>, screwed shut like he wasn’t listing up <em>proof that Steve Harrington is just that fuckin’ stupid</em> just a second ago.</p><p>“You’d like that, huh?”, and the way Billy’s talking, all slow and low and so fucking <em>angry</em> makes him feel like he’s crossed that line they <em>keep</em> crossing. The one he fucking <em>leaps</em> over every night he wakes up sweaty and shaky and hot all over, acting like he doesn’t know what (<em>who</em>) made him feel that way. “It’d make you feel better if I fucked my way into where I am, right? Billy Hargrove fucked Mrs. Peterson to get into AP bio, right? Billy Hargrove sucked coach’s cock to get a spot on the team the first week he got here, right?”, and he’s packing up his shit, talking all fast and angry and <em>hurt</em>, and half of Steve kinda wants to say he’s fucking sorry, tell him to stop overreacting. The other half of him is kinda stuck on <em>Billy</em> and <em>sucking cock.</em> Fuck.</p><p>“Come on, that’s not what I-“, and Billy’s eyes snap back to his, all crackling electricity in a way that makes him flinch, makes him feel like he’s gonna get hit by fucking lightning.</p><p>“Fuck you, Harrington. Some of us can read between the fuckin’ lines. Good luck flunking outta senior year”, and he’s outta the living room, boots shaking the entire fucking house, door shaking in its hinges when he slams it shut.</p><p><em>Fuck</em>. He can’t really <em>do</em> anything, stays glued into the stupid armchair he fucking <em>vacuumed</em> because- because of shit he doesn’t wanna fucking unpack.</p><p>And yeah, maybe calling Hargrove a <em>pretty-much prostitute </em>doesn’t go on the <em>why</em> Billy Hargrove <em>sucks list. </em></p><p>It takes him a good couple of minutes to stop staring at the Billy Hargrove indent in his stupid couch. At the worn copy of a book that’s tucked between the pillows. Forgotten, and without a doubt belonging to Billy <em>fucking</em> Hargrove.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I keep thinking of you (and you keep coming back)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is just all smut in the second half, so if that makes ya uncomfortable, skip the last 1/3 of it, pretty much. </p><p>This fic got SO much bigger than I thought it would be, goddamn. </p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The book stays in his backpack for two days before he does anything about it. The one Billy Hargrove left at his house. He didn’t even open it, not when he had no idea what to expect. The whole cover’s all ruined, painted black and scratched with car keys or just anger and fingernails. It’s weird. And he doesn’t really wanna know what kinda book makes Billy Hargrove worked up enough to drench it in tar and then try to set it on fire, or something. So, he doesn’t open the book. Keeps it mixed up with his own books and shit he never takes up from his bag anyways, feels it sit heavy there everytime he sees Billy, after. After Billy Hargrove left his house all angry and hurt after Steve couldn’t keep his big, fat mouth closed. After Steve sat in his stupid, unlived living room for what could’ve been hours, contemplating just braining himself on the coffeetable to get rid of his weird stress boner. </p><p> </p><p>He sees Hargrove on Thursday, doesn’t give him the book even though he had an opening when Carol dragged Tommy to the bathrooms - she’d always been freaked out by the janitor who’s always cleaning up that never ending puddle by <em>402C</em>. Doesn’t shove it in his locker when he leaves it unlocked during lunch, going out to smoke or bully some middle schooler or eat Tina Launter out under the bleachers or <em>whatever</em> the fuck Billy Hargrove does at lunch. </p><p> </p><p>He just keeps <em>seeing</em> him everywhere, even though Billy never sees him. Never looks back, and it’s not like he usually stares him down all the time, not outside a’ practice or lunch or- <em>whatever</em>. But it’s Thursday, and he sees Billy Hargrove <em>everywhere</em>, but never those eyes. Never feels them on him like magnets or some shit, that blue ice cold and white hot all at the same time. And Billy doesn’t get his book. </p><p> </p><p>By Friday he’s running on the sleep he got on Wednesday, after jerkin’ off into his bedspread and not thinking about the reason <em>why</em> his sheets are even tucked in and straightened all nice. By Friday he’s seen Billy Hargrove enough times that he’s memorized the stupid slope of his neck, heard his laugh that probably isn’t his real one like a thousand times, had to stare at the back of his head for two hours in chem, finding curls that’re to shades lighter than the rest of ‘em. </p><p> </p><p>So, by the time he’s heading out from practice, an hour of staring at Billy Hargrove, an hour of knowing he’ll be looked at back ‘cause Billy <em>needs</em> to look at him, needs to keep his eyes trained on his every damn move, he’s damn sick of carrying Billy Hargrove’s weird, probably cursed book around. </p><p> </p><p>He gets outta the shower quick, and it’s not ‘cause Hargrove isn’t standing next to him, taunting him, daring him to look. It’s just- it’s <em>whatever</em>. He’s already hopping into his jeans, tee loose around him, when Billy comes up next to him. ‘Cause <em>Har</em>grove and <em>Har</em>rington puts them close, all the damn time. And the book’s just waiting in his bag, sitting there together with Steve’s shit, and Billy’s right there, shuffling into too small jeans, buttoning up a shirt enough to hide a bruise too big to be some kinda hickey by his pec. </p><p> </p><p>Hargrove’s taking his sweet time, fixing up his hair and playing with an earring, so Steve takes his time too. Finds a lotion shoved into the back of his locker and starts rubbing his hands, his face. Doesn’t really look at Billy. Everyone else is ditching, throwing see ya at Cheryl’s at Billy like they just have to see him, like they can’t get enough of golden boy Billy. Steve doesn’t get it. </p><p> </p><p>He’s sick of the damn book, and he’s sick of his eyes that’re always drawn to Billy <em>fucking</em> Hargrove, so he kinda slams his locker shut, hopes it’ll make Hargrove look his way. He doesn’t, though, just stares into the mirror he’s got taped up with like half a roll of the tape coach has to fix up broken fingers or hurting knees.  </p><p> </p><p>“Hey”, and he sounds all breathless, like he hasn’t been rooted in the same spot for like ten minutes, staring at Billy outta the corner of his eye. </p><p> </p><p>He gets a grunt in return, a fraction of a second of those eyes on him. </p><p> </p><p>“I, uhm, you left a book, at my place? I have it with me, if you want it”, and Billy’s looking at him like every word leaving his mouth is making him all annoyed, so he kinda just thrusts the book into his chest, doesn’t say anything else. Won’t, until the bastard says something to him, for once. </p><p> </p><p>It takes Billy a second to take in the fucked up pocketbook he’s clutching to his chest, for his eyes to go wide, for him to suck in a breath and actually look at him.</p><p> </p><p>“Did you read it?”, and it’s not like he forgot how low Hargrove can make his voice, but it still makes him shiver. And it’s so stupid, it shouldn’t be a thing he notices. He still does, though. </p><p> </p><p>“No? I mean, reading isn’t really my thing”, and the way Billy breathes out makes him wish he did, even if he’d be scarred for life from whatever the fuck Billy Hargrove reads for fun. </p><p> </p><p>And Hargrove breaths out something that sounds a lot like <em>yeah, no shit,</em> and he’s shoving the book into his worn bookbag, looks ready to bolt until Steve opens his stupid, <em>stupid</em> mouth and blurts out,</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry”, and it makes him halt, turn ‘round and look at Steve with his brow all furrowed. And Steve knows he’s gonna start rambling, explain himself and stumble into some sorta trap, but he can’t stop it when his mouth opens and lets out, “for like, saying all that shit? I didn’t mean it like that, like you’re a, a hooker or something? I was just frustrated and shit, and I, uh, stepped over the line? So, sorry” </p><p> </p><p>And Billy kinda keeps staring at him, and it takes getting <em>used</em> to every time he decides to lock his stupid blue eyes on his, so he can’t really help the way his hands are all clammy, how his tee’s sticking to his back. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, alright. Just, don’t think it ain’t hard for me too. Just ‘cause it seems easy”, and he sounds all <em>grownup</em>, all insightful like he didn’t punch Tommy in the face two weeks ago for saying something about some kinda author everyone’s forced to write about but no one really knows anything ‘bout except Billy. </p><p> </p><p>“I get that”, and he kinda doesn’t, doesn’t get how Billy looks at him all serious and <em>almost</em> soft, bag slung over his shoulder, rucking up the sleeve of his shirt. </p><p> </p><p>And Billy nods all <em>stoic</em> and whatever the fuck they’re talking about in the books his English teacher keeps drooling over, makes his way to the door. And Steve just, he can’t fucking control himself, grabs his shit and speed walks up to him, says,</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe you could still help me out? I’ll be less of a dick, this time?”, and it makes Billy laugh, more than a harsh breathe-out, even if it’s all quiet and private. Steve knew it’d be different. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I’ll help you out. I need to stay on Click’s good side ‘til I get outta here. And, I’ll stay clear of all touchy subjects, princess”, and he almost wants to tell him there <em>are</em> no touchy subjects, but it’s an all new kinda sad if touchy subjects became a touchy subject. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, man”, and they’re at the point where they have to split up, drive off and not overthink every detail of their conversation, but Billy kinda stalls, and Steve kinda angles himself so he can walk backwards to his car so he can still look at Billy. And he half hopes he trips and dies, ‘cause apparently he’s the type of guy to walk <em>backwards,</em> now. </p><p> </p><p>“Whatever. I’ll see ya Monday, your place”, and it’s not a question, it’s just Billy inviting himself over to his house like he has the damn right. Steve has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling.</p><p> </p><p>“What, no parties?”, and he’s yelling it across the fucking parking lot, at Billy’s back, ‘cause he’s <em>not</em> the type of guy to walk backwards to his car just to keep his eyes on a guy for just a little longer. But Hargrove turns around, meets his eyes, grins at him all sharp for a second, maybe two, drawls out,</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Dimensions</em>, pretty boy”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>So, Billy comes by Monday. And Wednesday. And Friday, too, just smiles like that and says <em>no one fun’s hosting a party tonight anyways</em>. And then he just, he keeps coming back. Monday, Wednesday, every other Friday when it’s not Tina with the big empty house who’s hosting. </p><p> </p><p>He keeps coming over, bookbag clutched in fingers draped in all sorts of rings, heavy and shining and fucking distracting. Plants himself on Steve’s couch, reads through his shitty essays, tells him to <em>have fun with it</em> like that makes any sense. He doesn’t mention dyslexia again, holds in his <em>idiot</em>’s, replaces them with <em>pretty boy</em>’s and <em>princess</em>’. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t even help him, some days. Just sprawls over Steve’s couch, torn books clutched in big hands, let’s Steve do whatever the fuck he wants. He mostly stares, lays down on the too soft, too clean carpet, stares up at Billy Hargrove burrowed deep into the pillows of his couch. Pretends to do some reading too, stares at <em>Wu</em><em>thering Heights</em> like the words are gonna make sense if he just begs them to enough. He’ll talk, throw his words out and get a grunt or a shuffle in return. He’ll ask about the books Billy reads, he never brings back that all painted blacks probably satanic book, and he’ll get a <em>mind your damn business</em> in return.</p><p> </p><p>By the time it’s Wednesday again, the fourth Wednesday Billy Hargrove’s been taking up Steve’s space, they’ve cracked a couple of his dads - <em>fuck off, don’t call him daddy Harrington, what the fuck</em>, imported beers, homework and <em>this is your last assignment, last chance, Steve’</em>s all abandoned on the floor. </p><p> </p><p>“This shit’s gross, Harrington”, and it is, but he downs half of his soapy German beer in one gulp, stares all <em>you just don’t get it</em> at Billy, who’s hanging off the edge of the couch, curls falling over the edge. He looks stupid, so damn stupid with his body all loose from beer and actual laughter and some kinda thing, hanging between them. Steve can’t stop looking. </p><p> </p><p>“Bud light more your style?”, and it’s the beer that makes his voice sound all lilted, slow and halfway to flirty. </p><p> </p><p>“Light? Nah, I don’t do that weak shit”, and it’s the type of shit guys who think high school is the world say to girls who practice their laughs in the mirror before every party. It’s the shit Steve used to eat up before his world got a whole lot bigger, monsters and other dimensions barging into his, all set on fire. He sees right through it, knows that it’s all <em>bullshit</em>, but he plays along, smiles all slow, like syrup, at Billy from where he’s leaning against the armchair. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh right, of course. You only beat my kegstand by what, twenty seconds? No, fifty?”, Billy Hargrove doesn’t need him stroking his ego, but it’s just- just so easy to fall into some sorta weird thing with him, to push and prod at something Steve really shouldn’t think about. </p><p> </p><p>“That has nuthin’ to do with my alcohol tolerance, pretty boy”, and Billy makes it so easy, so easy for his brain to twist and turn whatever he’s saying with that smile and voice into all sorts of shit Steve’s really just okay with thinking about at two am, too tired and with too little self control to stop. He doesn’t really have an answer to that, can’t think about anything that wouldn’t ruin the way Billy’s laying down all relaxed. He shakes his head, throws it back against the armchair with a <em>thud</em>, like that’s gonna shake away all the thoughts of what makes Billy so good at kegstands and… other shit. Mutters out a,</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, asshole”, ‘cause he just has to continue talking, or something. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, don’t be a bitch to the guy who’s saving your fuckin’ high school career. I’m helping you out here”, and yeah, sure, he’s kinda responsible for every pass Steve’s gotten the last month before he’ll never have to think about that shit again, but today, all he’s been doing is drink his beer and lay on his couch and laugh at his stupid jokes. </p><p> </p><p>“All you’ve done today is drink my beer and read your, <em>I’m so smart and read books all the time</em> book”, the way he pitches his voice low, makes it all stupid and Valley girl, makes Billy laugh, that real laugh Steve’s been hearing a lot more lately, can’t stop hearing hours after Billy’s gone. Maybe he’s going insane or something. </p><p> </p><p>“That makes no sense, pretty boy. ‘Sides, this book is good”, and he pats it, where he’s put it on his stomach, pages rustling. His shirt’s rucked up to his bellybutton, and he’s got enough beer in him to make the idea of glueing his eyes to that sliver of skin sound amazing. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s it ‘bout?”, and he’s never gotten an answer, whenever he’s asked about the books Billy’s always pulling out a’ his bag and his pockets, but he keeps asking, ‘cause it’s- the way Billy Hargrove glows, when he talks about the shit he knows better than anyone, he just- he wants to <em>see</em> that. </p><p> </p><p>“Not sure you’d like it”, it’s not a mind your fuckin’ business, so he takes that as a go ahead to stretch his leg out and nudge at Billy’s stupid muscly shoulder with a socked foot. Billy doesn’t even swat him away, just snarls a little at him with way too white teeth. “Yeah, yeah, okay. It’s hard to explain though”, and he’s picking up the book, thumbing through it even though his eyes are on Steve, blue all soft but too clear after that many beers. </p><p> </p><p>“Try me”, and he knows he’s gonna get jackshit, ‘cause he’s not smart enough to read the stuff Billy Hargrove carries with him all the time, but he just- he’s drunk enough for it to be okay that he just wants to listen to his voice.</p><p> </p><p>“So it’s an autobiography, right? But it’s like, it’s more than that, too? The characters, they travel through the ‘states and do all sorts of shit, like drugs and chicks, y’know? But it’s not- it’s kinda beautiful, too? All poetic and shit, like, the guy who wrote it was high outta his mind when he thought of all that shit, probably. I don’t know man, it’s just- it’s special. ‘S just good, ‘s all”, Billy’s voice is all liquid gold, soft and slow and kinda woozy, words tilted sideways. And there’s some kinda longing there, some kinda I need that, too, in the way he’s talking about a book Steve’s never gonna be able to get. It makes him wanna try, try to <em>get</em> it.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah”, and he’s yawning it out, eyes heavy, limbs too. And it’s a relief, that his body’s letting him be tired, the way lulling his head to the side, eyelids low, comes easy. ‘Cause sleep doesn’t really come if he doesn’t, or if he isn’t blackout drunk on whiskey poured outta crystal straight down his throat. But he’s tired now, all relaxed and loose from Billy’s voice and his words and the sound of his clothes ruffling against Steve’s couch. </p><p> </p><p>And he’s about to fall the fuck asleep, right there on the floor, but then Billy makes some kinda grunting noise, and heaves himself up, stretches all stupid and loud and bone deep. And he looks like he’s about to head home, and Steve kinda wants to kick himself for being disappointed, ‘cause it’s a school night, and they haven’t been studying for like the last three hours or something, so of course Billy’s gonna fucking leave. </p><p> </p><p>“Anyone ever told you that your living room is fuckin’ boring?”, and it’s not really the later, Harrington that he’s used to, but he’ll fucking take it, ‘cause Billy’s voice is all rough from the beer and from how he’s been dozing off on his couch all day. It’s just- it’s nice, okay? And he’s allowed to just, objectively know when someone’s voice is nice. “Y’know, I’ve never seen your bedroom, princess”, and with that Billy’s moving for the stairs with too much energy for someone who’s been laying around doing nuthin’ all day. </p><p> </p><p>He has to scrabble to his feet, makes his way to the stairs and hopes Billy’s not going ‘round opening doors Steve’s not supposed to touch. He’s taking two steps at a time, his day running on repeat when he tries to remember if he left any boxers tangled in his sheets or on the floor. His stomach’s fluttering all stupid like it’s- like it means something that Billy Hargrove wants to see his damn bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>Billy’s opened every door from the stairs to the fourth one on the right, his one, and he’s standing in the doorway, like he’s taking it all in. He hears a whistle and a, </p><p> </p><p>“Damn, all this plaid really explains a lot”, and that makes <em>no</em> sense, but it still makes him wanna explain it, tell him he’s been wanting to rip it off since his mom paid too many people to set it all up. </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, Jesus”, but he doesn’t really do anything to shut Billy up. Lets him wander in, trace his fingers over his dresser, the basketball trophies and swimming team medals collecting dust there. He feels awkward, following Billy around in his own room, itching to explain away every trinket or dirty sock that Billy raises an eyebrow at. He ends up on his bed, eyes following Billy, taking in the way Billy takes in Steve, in a way. Even if there’s jackshit in his room that actually feels like his, except for the walkie Dustin gave him three weeks after they saved the world from monsters named after the game he wanted him to play every Saturday with them, now. Not that he really understood that shit, anyway. Except for the ‘mags he’s got shoved under his mattress, the lube on his bedside table. And isn’t that just a sad fucking realization. </p><p> </p><p>He’s laying down, staring up at his popcorn ceiling by the time Billy makes some sorta noise, again. He’s laughing, huffing under his breath, standing by Steve’s desk, clutching something in his hand. And he tries to remember if he left something the kids made him there, or if he just dug deep enough in the drawers to find those old pictures of him an’ Nancy. </p><p> </p><p>“Jesus, princess, ya think about me a lot?”, he turns around, says it with blue eyes staring into his own, smile sharp, too tight and too sober compared to before. And he’s holding a slip of paper, a receipt or something. And he can’t really remember, doesn’t get it until he sits straight, until Billy takes two steps closer. </p><p> </p><p>It’s from the Palace, a receipt for hot dogs and pop and shit for the kids, a receipt he’d promised Dustin he’d give to Mrs. Henderson so everything’d be paid all fair, ‘cause <em>I’m not a kid, I need to pull my weight now.</em> The one he dropped on his desk and kinda forgot about. And that shit doesn’t really matter, ‘cause that’s not what Billy Hargrove’s looking at. It’s Steve’s chickenscrawl on the back, his hasty three am handwriting. His actual, physical, right there in Billy’s hand, <em>why Billy Hargrove sucks list. </em></p><p> </p><p>Fuck. It’s kinda impossible to go back in time and kick the shit outta yourself, but damn, if he just- he doesn’t know what’s <em>wrong</em> with him, why he writes incriminating fucking evidence down on little notes in handy little lists for everyone to see. For Billy Hargrove to see. </p><p> </p><p>“Listen-“, and his voice is all wobbly, cracks on one word, but it’s fine, ‘cause Billy’s not letting him get any room to talk, anyways. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m almost impressed, Stevie! You’ve spelled it all correctly. Even <em>infuriating</em>, good job”, and it’s- it’s a low blow, the way he’s talking. The way he’s smiling all sharp like he knows what he’s doing, and it’s- he never thought it’d go this way, not really. Even though he’s kinda stopped caring about what he thinks about when he jerks off in the shower, when he sees blond curls literally anywhere. Who he thinks about. He’s still- he’s been <em>careful</em>, but Billy’s smiling all shark sharp, holding his why Billy Hargrove sucks list, the one that’s not really about why he sucks, anymore. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on man, give me that”, the paper’s pinched between his fingers, crinkling from how hard he’s clutching it, and Steve doesn’t even try to rip it outta his grip.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got a diary too somewhere?”, he’s looking around all theatrical, hand over his eyes like he’s spying for Steve’s secret diary, and he’s a fucking asshole, but Steve’s kinda terrified, kinda frozen, too frozen to say that. </p><p> </p><p>“No, shit, you’re not funny, just drop it”, and there's some sorta fight or flight going off him, adrenaline pumping, shoulders tense. This is it, right? </p><p> </p><p>“I actually kinda buy it, the first one’s. Loud, mean, drives like a moron. A jackass to the kids - I apologized for that, by the way, calls Max a bitch, too rough at practice”</p><p>He’s reading it all out, nice and loud, and Steve can feel his pulse in his ears, his throat. “I get it, ya don’t like me, right? But then it gets weird, yeah? Teeth are too white, stays naked for way too long after the showers, eyes are <em>infuriatingly</em> blue. Not sure those are things to hate, Harrington.” And his whole damn life is flashing before his eyes, every dumbass moment that doesn’t really match this one, ‘cause it’s so fucking stupid. He’s let himself be stupid, got sucked into fantasies he shouldn’t be having, and it’s all so fucking dumb. It’s bullshit. </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, shut up, you don’t-“, Billy’s talking all rapid fire, too damn fast, throwing words that’ve been playing in his head for too long right at him. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t what? Don’t know what I’m talking about? Really? Y’know what I think, Steve?” And it’s <em>Steve</em>, not princess or pretty boy or Harrington, it’s Steve, and it’s all <em>wrong</em>, sharp ‘round the edges. And he feels trapped, between the bed and Billy, held in place by those eyes, fucking shining like the pool in his backyard, but different, too. This blue doesn’t give him nightmares. “I think”, and he’s coming closer, one step, two, eyes never leaving his. “I think you like me”</p><p> </p><p>“Shut up”, Billy’s eyes on him’s gonna set him on fire, burning electricity, that blue flame, that hottest part. <em>Don’t touch. </em></p><p> </p><p>“You gonna make me?”, it’s- it’s not what he expected. It’s something his mind can make into something else, so, so easily. It’s a game. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”, it’s just a breath, barely there, his what. But Billy hears it, has to, ‘cause he’s so fucking close, and Steve’s fucked up enough not to wanna take a step back. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you” <em>closer</em> “gonna make me?”, and he can feel Billy’s breath, breaths it in, ‘cause they’re so close. And he’s been twisting Billy’s words ‘round in his head since he fucking saw him, and he’s tired of twisting and turning and backpedaling. Kinda acts, instead. Rushes forward in some kinda coked up courage, with a<em> fuck, this is how I die. </em>And he kisses him. </p><p> </p><p>Kisses Billy Hargrove like he’s been doing in his head for months, pretending like he didn’t know who’s lips and smile and tongue he keeps fucking dreaming of. It’s harsh, too fast and rough with teeth clicking and spit catching. His stomach’s all in knots, burning with anticipation and fear, like when he was stuck in living tunnels, setting them on fire and running. </p><p> </p><p>Billy Hargrove kisses him back. Licks into his mouth like he’s been- like that’s something they <em>do</em>, fists a hand into his hair, angles his head where he wants it. He’s gonna pass out. Billy walks them backwards until Steve’s back hits the wall with a thud, Billy pressing in close, keeping him there. He’s warm, vibrating against Steve, hand gripping his side, nose kinda bumping against his. </p><p> </p><p>He’s gasping, when they break away. Fucking panting, chest heaving ‘cause he kissed Billy Hargrove and Billy Hargrove kissed him right back. Billy pulls back just enough for him to look into his eyes without going all crosseyed, blue flickering from his eyes to his lips to his cheeks that feel too hot. </p><p> </p><p>“You definitely like me”, and it’s a total asshole thing to say, but Billy’s all outta breath too, sounds kinda unbelieving and in fucking awe. He doesn’t know how to answer that, doesn’t wanna think too deep about how he’s been waking up aching for a guy since Billy Hargrove and his suntanned abs and muscled back strolled into Hawkins, doesn’t wanna unpack how he really fucking likes him. He kisses him again, instead. Goes slower, lips against lips until Billy starts tracing the seam of his with his tongue, curling it under Steve in a way that makes him whine, when he opens up all too quick for him. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take much for him to get hard, not generally. And now he’s got Billy Hargrove pinning him against his bedroom wall, nosing at his jaw, grinding against him in all these slow, teasing movements. Billy’s jeans are tight enough for him to feel the outline of his dick so well it makes him lightheaded. Fuck. </p><p> </p><p>“God, fuck, I want you”, and it’s tumbling outta his mouth before he can stop it, and it’s embarrassing for a second, before Billy moans, against his neck. Thigh slotting between his own, hand flexing where it’s wrapped ‘round his waist. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”, and he’s saying it right against his ear, breath wet and hot in a way that makes his fucking knees buckle. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, yeah. Shit, Billy, I thought you were gonna- I thought you were angry, shit”, and it’s hard to concentrate, to get words out when Billy’s mouthing at his neck, biting down where his neck meets his shoulder, licks over the bite to soothe it, laughs when it makes Steve moan like he’s fucking wounded.</p><p> </p><p>“I can’t fucking believe this. Can’t believe you”, and it’s the- it’s soft, it’s some sorta confession, and Steve lets himself have that, have Billy Hargrove all soft in his arms, before he smooths a palm down Billy’s back, grabs his ass to keep those hips against his, eyes rolling back into his skull when his dick gets the almost too much friction of denim pressing against denim. “You wanna?”, and with the way Billy’s grinding his dick on Steve’s thigh it’s kinda obvious what he wants, but he’s also kinda struggling with forming a single fucking sentence. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, god, yes”, and he’s got Billy’s lips on his again, curls a hand into his hair to guide him up, nips at his bottom lip ‘cause he wants to do it every damn time he sees Billy do it. </p><p> </p><p>“You got stuff?”, and all his blood’s kinda rushing south, leaving him all dizzy and fucked out. So yeah, it’s kinda hard to answer that, when it’s just that much more fun to lick down Billy’s neck, blow cold air on sensitive skin. “Hey”, and Billy has to fucking push away, stay at a safe distance, ask again. </p><p> </p><p>“Uhm, yeah? Yeah. What?”, and he answered, tried to go back to kissing at those freckles splattered across the apple of his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Stuff</em>. Condoms, lube?”, his words are paired with a hand snaking its way down, brushing against him, playing with the zipper. “Been wanting you to fuck me for forever, pretty boy. I know you’re hiding a fuckin’ monster down there” and he’s moaning around the words, like he’s- like he’s picturing it, and Steve’s leaking pre in his boxers. It’s heady, the way Billy’s all solid, all <em>close</em>, whispering all the shit he’ll have on repeat on sleepless nights. </p><p> </p><p>And he wants it so bad, almost comes at the thought of it, of Billy stretched around him, begging him to go harder, fuck. Billy’s leaving sloppy kisses all over his jaw, and god, Steve wants, and he pushes off the wall to lead ‘em to bed, to reach his bedside table where he’s got his lines and where he used to hide condoms under the- used. Used to, when he had any. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh fuck, I don’t have any condoms”, and it’s fucking embarrassing, how his stash ran out seven months ago and he hasn’t needed to refill it. Jesus fuck. </p><p>“Why not? That’s the saddest shit I’ve ever- oof”, an’ he cuts the bastard off with a kiss, splays his fingers across his chest, presses into his pecs, his nipples.</p><p> </p><p>“We can, we can still do stuff, right?”, and at that point it feels like he'll <em>die</em> if the answers no, ‘cause Billy’s been working himup until he’s leaking, body all tense for it, aching for it. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck, yeah”, and Billy says it right against his lips, pushes them down until he’s pulling Steve over him, mattress groaning under ‘em both. “Want you to fuck my thighs, pretty boy”, and that’s it, that’s what’ll kill him, what him right down. And Billy just- he continues, wraps his legs around his waist, clings to him like- like Steve’s fucking into him already. </p><p> </p><p>He’s moaning with the idea of it, head spinning and running a million miles an hour. And it takes a a couple of tries for his shaky hands to pop Billy’s jeans button, for him to get those pants off, and god, it’s- Billy’s so hard he’s twitching with it, cockhead flushed and needy and perfect, and fuck, Steve never wants to stop looking. He has to though, ‘cause Billy’s telling him to get the lube, and then he untangles himself to turn ‘round, face down, hips up. He’s gonna fucking faint. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a <em>sight</em>, Billy Hargrove on his bed, all on display just for him. It’s too much, too much not to touch, and his palms are running over everything, over his belly and back and those damn thighs. It’s an impulse, outta nowhere, when he presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. </p><p> </p><p>“Come on”, and it’s all challenge, like Billy’s not the one baring himself to the damn world right now, and it makes him fumble sight he cap, spurt out lube right onto the crack of his ass, his thighs. It gives him a moan, head thrown back, focus just on that, on sensations and lust and Steve’s fingers working on his lubeslick skin. </p><p> </p><p>He gets outta his own jeans, huffs at how he’s getting slick all over them, throws them somewhere, can’t help curling a hand around himself, ‘cause he’s got Billy <em>fucking</em> Hargrove splayed out on his bed. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck”, and it’s like nothing else, the feeling of those golden, all muscle thighs tights around his dick, lube and pre making it so easy to work out a rythm in time with his own little moans and Billy’s breathy groans. He drapes himself over Billy’s back, fucks his hips forward like he’s fucking him, pace faltering when his cockhead catches at Billy’s balls in a way that makes them both gasp and shake. </p><p> </p><p>And he’s gonna fucking come like this, one hand on Billy’s hip, pushing his ass and those thighs closer, another folding him up right by Billy’s head. He’s gonna blackout, or something, can feel lit build all intense and new right under his bellybutton. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh shit, I’m gonna come, <em>Billy”</em>, he doesn’t even recognize his own voice, fucked up and shot toe, all sideways and drunk on Billy. He gets a groan in return, a bared throat he nuzzles into. </p><p> </p><p>And shit, Billy’s moving all erratically, like he’d come without a hand on him, all from Steve moving over him, humping him, halfway to fuxking him for real. And Steve just- he doesn’t wanna come first like that, can’t have that, ‘cause he’s a gentleman, so he moves his weight to his heels, wraps one hand around Billy’s dick. It’s hot, all warm and unfamiliar but just the same, too. It’s heady. It’s a power rush, holding his dick, hearing the sounds he makes when he speeds up, moves <em>down</em> to play with his balls. </p><p> </p><p>And it’s all too much, so many things happening all at once, and he’s coming, marking Billy’s ass up with his come, pretty much shouting through the whole damn house. And Billy follows right with him, spurts in his grip, comes in his hand and on his stomach and on sheets Steve hopes’ll smell like them, after. </p><p> </p><p><em>Shit</em>. They just <em>did</em> that. They just- his whole damn worlds kinda upside down, and he’s panting in bed with Billy Hargrove, sated and tired and fucked outta his mind. </p><p> </p><p>And there’s shuffling next to him, a goddamnit and a shirt being thrown across the room, and Billy’s burrowing into his sheets like he’s- like he’s staying. And the hope in his chest is too fucking bright to ignore. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re,” he has to clear his voice two times, get over the emotion and keep the that was the best orgasm I’ve ever heard out of it. “You’re staying?”, and it makes Billy tense, makes him look up, blue eyes kinda wet and big and fuck out. And he looks like he’s gonna get all sharp again, all defensive, so Steve kinda- he just throws his arm around him, pulls him close. Cuddles up to Billy Hargrove under his plaid, ugly covers. </p><p> </p><p>“You better make me coffee before school”, and it sounds real gruff, but he knows he’s smiling, he can just tell, and there’s a veiny arm wrapping itself secure over his shoulders, and something suspiciously like a kiss settling on his temple. The this doesn’t feel real makes him feel high, keeps him running on adrenaline, even when his eyes are heavy and legs kinda not working. </p><p> </p><p>Billy snuffles right by his ear, pulls the covers up all the way to their noses - and yeah, sleep comes easy. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Anyone who guesses correctly on which book Billy left behind will own a part of my soul.</p><p>Find me on tumblr! @awickedplacethisis</p></blockquote></div></div>
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